Staying alive is a funny thing. We’re conditioned to perform myriad actions that ensure our survival, so ingrained in our daily routines that they become second nature. Showering every night, brushing our teeth, washing our hair, drinking water, and eating proper meals — all these activities form a checklist that governs our existence, often turning life into a mechanical sequence of tasks.
What comes to your mind when someone mentions they have an eating disorder? Anorexia, right? It’s the first thing that springs to mind, overshadowing the multifaceted nature of eating disorders (EDs). There are myriad reasons why one might develop an ED, one being self-punishment. Punishing your mind alone is insufficient; the body must also bear the brunt. I used to drown myself in prescription pills and binge eat until I vomited, a desperate attempt to fill the void in my mind and heart. Moderation was alien to me. I had a routine — a toxic one — but it granted me a semblance of control. Starve yourself all day, then consume mountains of food in one sitting until you can no longer swallow.
Eat your feelings until you can no longer keep them down.
I knew I should have stopped, but like the ingrained habits of showering and brushing my teeth, I conditioned myself to binge eat. I kept telling myself, “It will make you feel better.” Yet, over time, I began to notice changes in my appearance — fat accumulating around my arms, love handles, thick thighs, and new weight I hadn’t carried before. Soon, I was unable to face myself in the mirror. Disgusted by my own body, mind, and heart, I began to nitpick incessantly, always finding new flaws to fix. Until one day, I confessed,
“Mum, I’m not hungry anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t finish a proper meal anymore. I eat an apple, and I’m full.”
“Are you getting sick?”
“Yes,”
I replied, but the sickness I referred to wasn’t one that could be cured with medicine or rest. It was a deeper malaise, a sickness of the soul that had taken root in my relentless pursuit of control and self-punishment. It was a silent scream for help, masked by the facade of routine and normalcy.
As days turned into nights, I found myself trapped in a vicious cycle of self-loathing and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Each day was a battle against the mirror, against the voice in my head that constantly berated me for my perceived imperfections. I realized that the control I sought was merely an illusion, a flimsy barrier against the chaos that threatened to consume me from within.
In the quiet moments of introspection, I began to understand that healing required more than just breaking the cycle of binge eating. It required a profound shift in how I perceived myself and my worth. It meant learning to embrace my vulnerabilities, seeking help, and allowing myself the grace to heal. The journey was daunting, but it was one I had to undertake to reclaim my life and find genuine solace. Like mental battles, the progress was never linear; it ebbed and flowed unpredictably. There was a steep learning curve, a period of grasping the hilt of the sword rather than its blade.
